


après moi

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, Stormblood DRK questline spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 06:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Fray is the promise of things that could be and a reminder of things that have passed.





	après moi

**Author's Note:**

> drk isn’t a part of my character’s canon but i really loved the questline so i wanted to write a thing for it...yea

It begins, as always, with an offering.

The flowers are slightly crushed when the Warrior of Light takes them out of their weathered pack, but Rielle assures them it’s fine. They’re still Fray’s favorite, and that’s what matters the most.

The girl once explained she knew this from their conjury lessons together. Fray would take her to the lush forests of the North Shroud to better attune to the wind and earth, the thick canopy hiding them from priests or Temple Knights or anything else that came to steal her away. 

The warrior recognized them as Nymeia lilies the first time Rielle gave them a handful for safekeeping, freshly plucked from the Twelveswood’s soil. They lay them on the snow in a semblance of a bouquet, attempting to prevent them from scattering in the Coerthan wind. Rielle’s breath is visible when she murmurs a small prayer beside them.

Sidurgu doesn’t bring anything save his resolve, ever forged anew in others’ blood and his own. When the warrior is finished, he takes their place. He kneels before the makeshift headstone without saying anything.

It’s nothing like the one at Haurchefant’s memorial. Not inscribed with an ornate crest and a flowery piece of poetry beneath his name. Rielle picked the rock and Sidurgu hacked at it with his sword until it became presentable in form, then hastily scraped a single symbol onto the stone’s face before the Temple Knights’ patrol would pass by again.

But it serves its purpose. Having Fray interred by Ishgard’s dogs left a foul taste in Sidurgu’s mouth, so Rielle suggested making a place of their own. Fray was fond of brooding in this particular corner of the highlands - it was a good a place as any to remember him by.

A few more moments in the snow and Sid decides it’s time to head back. 

“...Before we freeze our arses off,” he says. Rielle stifles a small giggle at the profanity. The warrior watches as two sets of footprints, one large and one small, form in the snow before trailing after them.

It’s become an unspoken ritual of theirs, whenever the warrior returns to Ishgard. They know they don't have to accompany Sid and Rielle, but they do anyways. Perhaps it’s a strange thing to do. The way Sidurgu misses Fray differs from the way Rielle misses Fray, but the way the warrior misses him is far more different from either of them.

Ishgard’s walls are no less imposing in spite of the reputation they’ve established for themselves.  _ Ward of House Fortemps, Hero of the Dragonsong War, Savior of Eorzea _ … waving around any of these titles could afford them a luxurious welcome, but they often choose to slink back to the city under the cover of darkness. Such things became habit - especially when one had a penchant for attracting the ire of the city’s more...  _ stubborn _ factions. Aymeric guided the city as a beacon of peace and hope; there was no need to undo his labors in broad daylight.

They weave through the Brume and towards the city’s only tavern, finding their companions once inside. As they sit under the roof of the Forgotten Knight, Sidurgu is silently reflecting, staring intently into his drink. Rielle sips her cider, a shiver coursing through her small frame as she warms up. The warrior sits across from them, simply enjoying their presence.

Rielle fills the silence when Sid has nothing to offer;  _ ‘the Voiceless _ ’ is almost a misnomer nowadays. 

She talks about the chocobos near Tailfeather - the yellow ones are the cutest, but they don't like Sid, and they’ve pecked him on more than occasion. She talks about the Moogles in the Churning Mists - they’re all cute, and Sid still doesn't like them, but he tolerates their presence when they show Rielle how to sing and dance and make her laughter ring through Moghome. 

She talks about the rare times Gibrillont lets her use the inn’s kitchen to practice cooking, and how she can make Sid’s favorites now. And, to Sid’s dismay, she divulges how his tail sways like a contented couerl’s when he takes the first bite, no matter how much he denies it.

And sometimes, Rielle talks about Fray. “You remind me of him, a little.” she says. 

That gives her conversation partner slight pause; the warrior cocks their head in question.

“He never talked much about what was bothering him. And at times, he seemed a little cold.” Rielle explains. The warrior doesn't blame her for the comparison. “But he's a good person. Like you.”

It isn't unwelcome. Coming from anyone else, being called a good person might have seemed shallow. But they trust Rielle’s judgement; she was always wise beyond her years, Dravanian influence aside. 

And Fray is as real to them as he is to Sid and Rielle, but there always feels like there's something missing when their predecessor is mentioned. It leaves an emptiness howling through them like the bitterly cold wind. The warrior had inherited his power, yet lost him before they even knew him. 

Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met, they wonder.

Their soul crystal rests comfortably against their skin; normally they keep it in their pack, but now it forms a makeshift pendant under their shirt. They absently reach up to gloss over it through the fabric, feeling the memories writhe under their touch.

“Is something wrong with your soul crystal?” Sid asks when he spies the movement. “I’d hate for you to lose it a second time.”

“It's nothing.” They quickly assure him. Sid raises a brow, clearly unbelieving. While the warrior is unused to this sort of prodding from their comrade, they do recognize that Sid is trying to be more amicable when they visit.  _ Trying _ , being the key word.

“It’s just…” They fiddle with the stone again. “I have Fray’s soul crystal, but I don’t know a damn thing about him.” The warrior sighs. Maybe it’s something they shouldn’t concern themselves with but it’s always… frustrating. They know Fray from wisps of aether and surges of bloodlust, the growing tide echoing through their body and sword when they called upon it. They don't  _ know _ him. 

“Do you really want to know that he snores louder than Sid, and you can hear it from a room over?” Rielle pipes up.

“ _ Rielle _ ,” Sid nearly sputters. The warrior thinks he's not so keen on Fray’s memory being honored by these sorts of merits.

“If you want to know more, you should just ask. Though I don’t really see the point.” Sid’s right, of course… to weigh themselves down needlessly never served them well. They’ve learned that much at least from their most recent debacle with their untameable aether.

“Do you remember when Myste conjured that… simulacrum from my memories?” He suddenly asks.

The warrior nods. Sid’s facial expressions range only from mildly annoyed to wrathful, but upon seeing Ompagne appear from a swirling cloud of darkness, he seemed… fond. Reverent. And even a touch melancholy until they were challenged to a duel. The warrior thinks they may have gotten a glimpse of the child the dark knight first took in.

“After my master gave us that thrashing, what he said was true.” Sid meets their gaze head on, his eyes glowing softly in the dim light of the tavern. “Fray would be proud of you. That’s all you need to know.”

And for the warrior, that might be enough.

-

Cloud Nine’s beds are not known for their comfort, but it was sometimes preferable to visiting Fortemps Manor, which is far too ornate for their liking. It also spared them being privy to the way Lord Edmont’s eyes would take a turn for the doleful when he thought no one was looking. 

_ There is no rest for the righteous _ \- a phrase they have found painfully true ever since they adopted the mantle of Eorzea’s light. The warrior has blown out the last lantern in the room, yet their body seems reluctant to sleep.

They curl into themselves while on one side of the bed, then reach out to pluck their soul crystal from the nightstand. It glows softly in their palm like Sid’s limbal rings, the slow pulse matching their heartbeat.

The last moments of Fray’s life are etched into one facet, the vestiges of his aether tangled with the power of the small stone. They close their eyes and recount the scene, as they have done many times before when the release of sleep seemed too far away.

-

The Tribunal is filled with cries for his death, yet his heartbeat is the most deafening in his ears amidst each clash of metal. Fray thinks it ironic how the pious nobility called the Brume rats barbarous when they were the ones watching his death for show.  _ Justice. _ That's what they called siccing their entire unit of Temple Knights on a single man. 

It isn’t fair, of course. But since when were the odds ever fair on the path he walked?

He shoves another one off of him, this time cutting them down with a savage swing. The lanterns are too bright in the arena, the light reflecting off his blade when he finishes. Mercy is Halone’s to give, not his. The light in their eyes dims and they fall to Fray’s feet with a dull thud.

May they rot in the Seventh Hell. Next one, please.

They intend to make him fight until he dies. He knows this. And with each swing of his sword, Fray feels himself growing fatigued. He is waning - even a moon on the darkest of nights wanes with time. Blood soaks his armor. He can feel the hurts he's sporting compromising his movements by a fraction of a second. Though, if he's being perfectly honest, he shouldn't be able to move his limbs at all with the way he's being butchered like a hog.

Fray exhales a steady sigh. If this is how it must be, then so be it. 

He calls upon another surge of anger, of fear, of honed resolve. His wounds numb and the blood staining his armors fizzles into a mist. Darkness envelopes his form, the familiar haze granting him the strength he needs to slaughter every godsdamned Temple Knight in the arena.

Ah, yes. Strength is suffering, strength is sacrifice. 

And by the  _ Hells _ , does he sacrifice. Flesh rends - one unlucky moment caught unawares and there’s a bloody  _ sword _ stuck in his gut. He meets the gaze of his reaper - a young knight with pure fear plain in his eyes even as Fray’s life seeps out from the end of his steel. 

Fray doubles over. In that moment, he doesn’t think about his vows or his master of any of that grandiose garbage you’re supposed to hold onto when you’re on the brink of death - only how much it burns and  _ burns _ like  _ all of the Twelve’s fury and━ _

They feel the side of the bed dip from behind them and stiffen.

The door is locked. They made sure of it. Trained instincts make them mentally recount where their sword rests against the wall. Their muscles suddenly don’t feel heavy at all; if they can just unsheathe it and get one aimed swing in, then...

“This again. You miss him?” Curious, expectant, with a hint of disbelief.

They let the question hang in the air before answering, the voice familiar and foreign at the same time. “I missed  _ you _ .”

“You missed what he could have been.” ‘Fray’ corrects them. The image of the corpse slumped in the Brume flickers through their mind, this time the obvious gash in its stomach unobscured by a delusion of their own making.

“I missed what you were.” Mentor, partner, an ugly culmination of the things they desperately sought.

They could have Eorzea in the palm of their hand if they so chose, yet they couldn't have what they truly wanted. They always play the part of silent hero, to whom none would listen. (Or, they were too afraid to listen. Others feared them. They know they do.)

“That,” Fray snorts in the wake of their misplaced yearning, “was a farce, and you know it.” 

Despite the callous phrase, the ghost of a cold gauntlet softly strokes their cheek, then their hair. The warrior shivers, then sighs. They close their eyes and turn their head slightly to lean into the touch.

“Just like you’re doing now, still carrying burdens that aren’t even yours.” Fray clicks their tongue. The warrior knows they've been watching their travels - watching them liberate foreign lands and bleed on their soil. There’s a difference between justice and being too godsdamned  _ nosy _ . 

“It’s not too late, you know. So long as you draw breath, you can run.  _ We _ can run, and leave it all behind.” Fray’s voice turns quiet. “And then, that heart of yours won't have to suffer this constant agony.”

It’s enticing, terribly so, to be unbound and free. They never asked for any of this. Not for the power to slay gods, nor the blessing of the Mothercrystal. But they cannot cast it all away, as much as they want to. Not when their comrades need them. Not when they are the only one who can bear the burden. And not when they are the one keeping the memories of smothered flames alive.

The sentiment is enough. Fray is the promise of things that can never be, and the weight of the things that are. They’ve come to terms with that.

“No, I… just wanted to see you.” Though they dare not turn to actually face Fray, lest the illusion fade and the other disappear. 

Fray chuckles, a deep sound that echoes in the back of their mind. Even if their face is obscured by their barbut, their eyes always betray the gentleness with which they regard the warrior. The warrior can envision them perfectly in the darkness of the room.

“Stubborn as ever, eh?” The tinge of amusement in their voice makes a warmth bloom in the warrior’s chest. “I’ll keep you company, then.” 

There's no sound of armor being undone, of course. There is no need for such trivial facades now that the warrior has embraced the true nature of their relationship. Fray’s weight on the mattress simply shifts, until the two of them mirror each other on the bed that’s slightly cramped for two.

It’s no surprise that Fray’s body fits against theirs perfectly. There’s a warmth pressed against the warrior’s back, the slight weight of an arm draped over their hip, and a chin snug on their shoulder. It’s… tender. Uncharacteristically so, for Fray. The warrior might have laughed if their head wasn’t swimming with pitch threatening to suffocate and drag them under.

They let themselves indulge in the feeling of something other than being alone with their thoughts. The thrum of Fray’s pulse, the soft breaths tickling their ear and neck. They drink in these reminders - ones that tell the warrior they are alive with each breath and that they won't simply  _ shatter _ . (Or perhaps they’ve imagined it all, because the dead and incorporeal don’t have hearts or lungs, but they don't care. They need this. For now.) 

The warrior can't remember the last time they've been vulnerable to another like this.  _ Mortal _ , not a weapon or hero. The way Fray holds them make their chest ache, like they've been waiting only too long for this sort of comfort, no matter how empty it is. 

Fray knows this - of course they know this. But they're silent, letting the warrior exhale the festering anguish they always keep caged between their ribs. One for the lives they’ve slaughtered, one for the souls they've watched depart by their side, one for the fear that keeps them alive, even if they don't deserve to be. Fray holds them closer as best they can, grounding the other in the darkness through their demons and doubts.

They can't fend off the the trials and tragedy that await the warrior each day; all they can offer is this fleeting solace. In this moment, they are safe. Entwined. Like how they were meant to be.

(...A pitiful thing, how the only thing you have in the end is yourself.)

“Sleep, you fool. You’ll need your strength come morning.” The chiding makes the warrior’s lips curve into a slight smile.

_ I don’t want you to leave _ , they almost say. But Fray speaks again before they can plead, this time in soothing tones that complement the weariness tugging at their consciousness.

“Listen to my voice. Listen to our heartbeat. _ Listen... _ ” The words makes the warrior relax before they’re dragged from the shallows and finally cradled by the abyss.

-

When the warrior wakes, a Nymeia lily rests on the nightstand next to their soul crystal, the petals slightly crushed. The sight makes their chest swell with something unidentifiable. 

The burden weighs as it should, but they feel a touch lighter when they step into the light of day.


End file.
